


Under Surveillance

by Lenore



Category: Smallville
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Promiscuity, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:10:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark grows up. Lex watches and stews about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Surveillance

**Author's Note:**

> It's the lovely [](http://fleegull.livejournal.com/profile)[**fleegull**](http://fleegull.livejournal.com/)'s birthday today, and I wondered to myself what she would like for her birthday. I'm hoping it's slutty!Clark and voyeur!Lex.

In Lex's fantasies, Clark is always blushing. It is always their first time together, Clark's first time ever. He moves with diffident eagerness, the way only a fifteen-year-old virgin can, his hands lighting on Lex's skin like easily startled birds. Every glance through half-lowered lashes says: _"Like this, Lex? Is this the way to do it? Is this what you want?"_

In the early gray light of a Monday morning five years later, Lex wakes up beside his still-sleeping wife, the underwear model who was supposed to be his Helen antidote, and the sweet dream of Clark frozen in time is chased away by a cold shot of reality. He rubs his eyes and falls out of bed. A hot shower washes away the last of his sleep, but none of his longing.

He dresses and heads to his study. He exercises his bossly prerogative on Mondays and works from home in the mornings. On the computerized schedule his assistant keeps, the time is blocked out as "research."

In the study, he finds a pot of black coffee, basket of pastry and the morning paper on his desk. Helga, their housekeeper, knows he is not to be disturbed once he gets to work. He closes the door behind him, but doesn't bother to lock it. Not even his wife is brazen enough to interrupt him when he's researching.

He sits down at his desk, turns on his computer, types in the password and pulls up the video files that are sent to him encrypted late every Sunday night.

He remembers with perfect clarity the first time Clark ever asked his advice about a girl, how he turned as red as a medical condition and stumbled over his words badly enough to be mistaken for an ESL student. In the surveillance footage of his college weekends, however, he is anything but shy. So many clubs, so many guys in the space of a Saturday night that Lex always loses track of the final tally, even when he's specifically trying to count.

He double-clicks and the images spring to life. The camera pans the crowd, searching, until it fastens on a familiar tousle of dark curls. It was easy to convince the owners of the various nightspots Clark frequents to let him put in the surveillance equipment, install a monitoring room, send in his own people to staff it. A check with many zeros, Lex has found, is the best kind of persuasion. He's sure he got the better end of the deal. Money is nothing compared to knowledge.

And he does know so much about Clark now.

In the footage, he is shirtless and writhing, wrapped around an equally underdressed blonde with a tattoo of a bleeding rose above one nipple. Sweat runs down the muscular valley of Clark's chest, the wet fringe of his bangs plastered to his forehead. He churns his hips into the blonde's to the beat of the music, but it is less like dancing and more like fucking standing up.

They dance to another song and another, Clark's hands buried deep in the blonde boy's pants. The blonde lets his head fall back against Clark's shoulder, eyes clenched tightly shut, mouth a tight, wide circle, the shape of ecstasy. Lex doesn't need a soundtrack to know when the boy comes. The flash of triumph on Clark's face tells him everything.

Afterwards, they kiss sloppily, and the blonde drifts away. Clark holds his hand up to his face, sniffs, swipes his tongue down the palm and smiles like he knows the world's most important secret. Lex has seen more lewd displays, certainly, but this is Clark and that makes it startling.

There are other boys, other songs, a great deal more groping. Lex watches it all. His stomach burns with jealousy, but his cock doesn't seem to care about such subtleties as ownership. Clark's bare skin flashes slick with sweat, and Lex's hard-on feels like it's trying to bore through his pants to get to him.

Eventually, Clark winds up in the bathroom, as he always does. Tonight his chosen playmate is a swishy sex kitten with dimples and a little goatee. In the last stall, the toilet has been removed to give the patrons more room to maneuver, and Clark and the other boy head straight for it.

Clark doesn't waste any time—he never does—pushing the boy against the wall of the stall, opening their pants, falling to his knees. Lex has seen him in every conceivable sexual situation, but it's still always a shock to his system that this is Clark, _his_ Clark, with his face buried in another man's sticky crotch, hand on his dick, playing with himself. It feels like a betrayal of that blushing boy from his dreams, but Lex can never help himself, can never keep from sliding his own greedy hand into his pants, acting out all the same moves Clark makes on screen.

Tonight, the blowjob is merely a prelude, as it often is. Clark likes to give head, but he _loves_ to get fucked. He pulls off the goateed-boy's cock, and Lex can just imagine the desperate sound that comes out of the kid. His expression brightens considerably when Clark stands up, lets his pants fall to his ankles, and braces himself against the wall, glancing back over his shoulder in invitation.

Instantly the other boy is plastered to Clark's back. Lex can read Clark's lips—he is saying _fuck me, fuck me now_. He likes it hard and dirty, no hesitations, no frills. The other boy obliges, and the camera zooms in tight on Clark's face. It's a little disturbing that whoever is following the action in the control room knows exactly what Lex likes, but then again, it means he's treated to moments like this. The boy enters Clark with an almost vicious thrust, and Clark's expression is utterly transported, like getting fucked is everything he knows about religion.

The boy pounds into Clark, and Lex pounds into his own fist. He knows Clark, knows his responses, and he always tries to pace himself so they come at the same time. It's silly, he realizes, to think this will somehow bring them closer. But if he can't have Clark, at least he can have his illusions.

Afterwards, Clark and the other boy part with a kiss that's nearly as pornographic as the fucking. Clark scrubs a hand through his hair and glances up, right into the camera, and Lex stares helplessly. There is a part of him that wishes Clark would figure it out, a part of him that wants to reach out and touch him, right through the monitor, past all the secrets and the lies and the years of frustrated longing.

Instead, he closes the file and shuts down the computer, rearranges his clothes and does a quick clean up. When he opens the door, he finds his wife Natasha outside the room, leaning against the wall, still dressed in her pajamas, dragging heavily on a cigarette, blowing smoke rings into the air.

"The research went well, I see." She smiles the way some people spit insults.

"You shouldn't smoke," he says coldly.

She shrugs. "We all have our vices."

He's used to her baiting and doesn't blink. "I have a late meeting with my board. I won't be home for dinner."

"Whatever." She pads off down the hall, en route to her first martini of the morning.

Not for the first time, Lex wonders how expensive it will be to get rid of her. The one positive thing about his other wives trying to kill him is that he saved a fortune in alimony.

* * *

It is late in the afternoon, after Clark's three o'clock European history class has let out, when Lex's secretary puts through his call. Clark checks in every Monday like clockwork, and it makes Lex wonder what powerful forces he pissed off in a previous life. It gets harder every time to keep up his end of a normal conversation, a challenge to talk at all when he's picturing Clark's pretty red bow of a mouth stretched around some stranger's dick.

"Hey, Lex. How's it going?" Clark's voice pulses warmly over the line.

He sounds so much like the overgrown puppy Lex first fell in love with that it's almost possible to believe nothing has changed.

"It's going fine," Lex tells him. "One of our competitors had this delusion about a possible takeover, but we've helped them get a better grip on reality."

Clark snorts with laughter. "I won't even ask how much you enjoyed that."

"My job does have the occasional fringe benefit. So what about you? Did you do anything fun this weekend?"

"Nothing special." Clark's lies are smoother now that he's older, if just as annoying.

Lex has learned to make his peace with the other secrets Clark keeps, but he'll never fathom why Clark feels the need to hide this. So he likes men. Likes sex. Does he really think Lex can't relate to that?

"I was hoping we could get together sometime soon," Clark ventures.

"Of course. What are you doing next weekend?" He can't help himself, can't help pushing.

"Actually, I'm going to Smallville," Clark says, not phased at all.

"Seeing Lana, huh?"

Lex can just imagine the pretty picture they'll make, how Clark will hold her, kiss her, the perfect, hypocritical boyfriend. Not that he has any room to criticize, of course, when he's spent the morning "researching" with his wife listening on the other side of the door.

"I usually try to stop by the Talon when I'm in town," Clark says. "So the weekend's out. Maybe we could do lunch one day? If you have time, I mean."

"I have time, Clark."

"Great!" He sounds unreasonably pleased, like Lex has just offered him a new Porsche instead of an hour of his time. "Is Thursday okay?"

Clark has only one class on Thursdays, advanced composition at nine o'clock.

"That's fine." Lex can always reschedule the conference call with his West coast office.

"I'll see you then, Lex."

"See you, Clark."

* * *

Despite all common sense, Lex can never keep himself from hoping that the next time he sees Clark will be the time they both stop pretending. It never is, and lunch on Thursday proves no different. Clark complains about the Sharks lackluster season and tells Lex about the paper he's writing for his problems in journalism class and makes the usual goofball jokes that Lex smiles at anyway because a goofy Clark is just so endearing. Lex asks him questions and tosses off the usual historical references and keeps flashing to a picture in his head of Clark's face strained with lust while he begs to be fucked.

He gets through it without embarrassing himself and spends the rest of the day replaying every moment, every smile. When he arrives home that evening, he finds Natasha in the foyer surrounded by a sea of luggage.

"My agent called. I've been booked for a spread in _Vogue_." She searches her purse for a cigarette and lights up. "It's shooting in Prague. I have to fly out tonight."

"Fine." Lex puts his briefcase down.

"I won't be coming back after the shoot's over."

His shoulders go stiff, but only because he's surprised. "Fine."

She blows smoke in his face. "I thought it would be."

She doesn't say goodbye when she leaves, and it's probably the nicest thing she's ever done for him.

* * *

Natasha's departure and Clark's trip to Smallville leave Lex at loose ends for the weekend. He considers things he could do: attend an art opening he was invited to or catch up on some paperwork or jet down to the Caribbean to celebrate his imminent return to bachelorhood. In the end, he gives his staff the weekend off and burns a DVD of Clark's greatest hits to play on the big-screen TV. The sofa in the living room is far more comfortable for masturbatory orgies than the chair in his study. By Sunday evening, he is worn out in a way that's more than physical, and he knows that something has to change.

* * *

It takes a few days of strategizing to come up with a plan. When he finally hits on the solution, he has to wonder why he never thought of it before. He makes a discreet call to a contact who agrees to line up the talent for him. He figures it's best to hire a professional to play Christian to his Cyrano.

Saturday finally rolls around, and Lex squeezes into a pair of tight black pants and an equally form-fitting shirt. He hasn't worn club clothes since before his stay in Smallville, and looking into the mirror is like traveling back through time, to an era that is probably better left behind.

At the club, he has arranged with the management to slip in through a back entrance. He can't afford to draw attention and tip Clark off. His contact faxed him a picture of the hired help. As he makes his way along the edge of the room, he scans the crowd and spots him just as he's making his move on Clark.

The hooker rubs a hand over Clark's chest, whispers in his ear, and Lex's heart beats too hard as he anticipates finally putting all these fantasies, all this jealous longing to rest. If he can have Clark just once—he truly believes—he can finally get him out of his system, let go of this insane obsession and hopefully get on with his life.

The hooker takes Clark's hand and leads him to the bathroom. Lex follows at a distance and listens outside, waiting until they are locked in the stall before stealing inside.

The loud smack of kissing and whispered dirty talk echo off the tiled walls, and he has to fight down the urge to storm in, pull the other man off Clark. _His_ Clark. Only the knowledge that Clark really will be his in a few short moments keeps him from charging ahead and spoiling the plan.

"That's right, baby. Spread your legs for me," the hooker coaxes. "Now close your eyes. Close them tight. I don't want you peeking until after I'm gone."

Clark's voice rumbles with amusement, "You get off on that, huh?"

"Let's just say I enjoy anonymity. That's so good. Stay just like that."

Lex is boiling over with impatience by the time the hooker finally slips out of the stall. He shoves a wad of cash into the guy's hand and takes his place.

"Hey, are you going to do me or not?" Clark starts to turn his head.

Lex puts a hand on his neck and holds him firmly in place.

Clark laughs softly. "You like control. That's cool. Anything you want. Just as long as you fuck me."

Lex puts his hands on Clark's hips, fingers curling into his flesh, taking possession. He _is_ going to fuck Clark, but it's not going to be some fumbling, wham-bam quickie like all those faceless strangers before him.

He has dreamed night after night of touching Clark, watched other men take his prize, but none of that matters as he lays his hands on Clark's back and slides them up the perfect arch of his spine. Because even in his stickiest fantasies, Clark's body was never this hot, this smooth. The lean muscles never jumped beneath taut skin the way they do under his exploring fingers. He certainly never imagined that Clark's every sound—his gasps and desperate little whimpers, even the simple rush of his breath—would make him feel like every cell in his body had just burst into flames.

He's loved the sweet, blushing boy in his dreams for such a long time, but this is _Clark_. This is real. And it's his. He presses their bodies as close together as he can, wraps his arm tightly around Clark's chest and buries his face in the curls at the back of his neck, breathing in salt and sweat and damp.

"God. Please!" Clark begs.

Lex bites his shoulder because he knows it will make Clark moan and writhe beneath him.

"Fuck me now!"

It's almost worth all the tortuous years he's waited just to hear Clark sound like this.

Lex pushes his zipper down and nudges Clark's legs farther apart. In his dreams, Clark is impossibly tight and hot inside, but the reality of it is so much better than even his wildest imagination. Lex sinks into Clark's sweet, yielding body, and it takes every shred of discipline he has not to scream Clark's name.

"Yeah, yeah," Clark chants. "Fuck me, fuck me."

Lex clutches at Clark's waist, peppers kisses to his shoulder and starts to move.

"God! Yeah," Clark moans. "Fuck me, Lex!"

Lex jerks with surprise and starts to pull away, but Clark reaches back, curves one large hand around his hip and holds him there.

"Don't. Please. I want you so bad. Please fuck me."

"But how—" Lex is dizzy, like it's not just the room spinning, but the whole world.

"It's you, Lex." Clark's voice is an earnest whisper. "It's always been you."

"Oh, God." The groan feels like it's been torn right out of him.

He rests his flushed cheek against Clark's shoulder and closes his eyes and fucks him like he's trying to make up for all the lost time. This isn't Lex's fantasy. Clark isn’t blushing or fifteen, and they're fucking against the wall of a toilet in a seedy nightclub. But there is one thing that's the same—the sense Lex has that nothing and no one could ever compare with this.

They both come, and Lex collapses against Clark's back, the scent of their sex rising in the air, overpowering in the small space. He breathes in deeply and wishes they could stay right here, just like this.

They can't, of course, and pulling out, cleaning up, straightening their clothes is all a cold reminder that there will be consequences to face. Clark doesn't say anything, just pulls his pants back up and buckles his belt. Lex can't quite bring himself to look him in the face.

"I'm know you're probably not very happy with me right now."

Clark pushes him back against the wall, and for an instant, Lex is almost afraid. But the only assault is a torrent of kisses, hot, wet mouth sucking at his neck, plundering his lips. Lex sinks his fingers into Clark's hair and hangs on. Clark is big and all over him, and Lex's cock makes a rather painful attempt to get interested again.

"How did you know?" he manages to ask, breathlessly.

"It's _you_. How would I not know?"

"I only wanted to—"

Clark cuts him off with another kiss. "I've been waiting forever for you to make your move." His smile is pleased and dazzling.

Lex stares, frowning darkly. "You—"

He's never been particularly big on turnabout as fair play, so the fact that he just tricked Clark does nothing to soothe his sense of outrage that Clark would have the temerity to play him.

"I figured you'd get tired of watching sooner or later."

"I can't believe you knew, and you still tortured me with all those men."

"Oh, please. You had a public place rigged with cameras to spy on me. You got what you deserved."

"You could have just told me. You could have—"

Clark raises his voice. "I couldn't do anything when you kept getting married every time I turned around. And besides—" He lets out his breath. "It wouldn't have done any good anyway. It never mattered how much I flirted with you or how many times I said I wasn't interested in Lana anymore. You just kept on seeing me as this kid you weren't allowed to touch. I had to _show_ you that I'm all grown up, that you can have me if that's what you want."

"It is," Lex says without hesitation. "It's what I want." He frames Clark's face in his hand and kisses him hard. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

A line of impatient couples stares at them as they leave the stall. Lex glares back, takes Clark's hand, and leads him out, through the crowd, toward the exit.

"Are you going to take me to a motel?" Clark's voice is sharp, bitter, and Lex is startled to realize he's not the only one who's been jealous.

He stops and pulls Clark in for the kind of kiss that leaves no room for uncertainty. "I'm going to take you home and fuck you in my bed."

"But won't your—"

"There's no one there, Clark. There hasn't been for a long time, maybe not ever, not really." He squeezes Clark's hand. "It's always been you."

Clark's face lights up as brightly as a Christmas tree, and he throws his arms around Lex, looking as innocently delighted as he ever did in Lex's dreams. At the same time, there is something dark and heated in his eyes, promising a different kind of delight altogether, anything but pure.

He pulls Clark impatiently out the back door and down the alley to his car. He's never had a greater appreciation for the contradictions of real life than he does right now.


End file.
